


Socks and Keys and Stuff (and John)

by lavvyan



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fairy Tales, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-12
Updated: 2009-04-12
Packaged: 2017-10-02 07:37:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavvyan/pseuds/lavvyan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Rodney McKay was a collector. A collector of lost things.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Socks and Keys and Stuff (and John)

Let me tell you a story:

~~~

Not too long ago, in a place just flipside of your own, lived a man called Rodney McKay. His house was enormous, with 263 rooms and a garden that was vast and untamed, for Rodney McKay could not be bothered with things he deemed green and useless. The house was ancient, too, graceful and maybe a little in need of repairs, and the people around – careful to keep away – only called it The Warehouse.

You see, Rodney McKay was a collector. A collector of lost things.

I do not know what magic brought him these things, if they were drawn by the house or McKay himself. But I do know that the 263 rooms were filled with things other people had misplaced, things that came and went, appeared and disappeared as they were lost and found again. There were hundreds, maybe thousands of single socks, key rings, wallets and umbrellas; but also things that got lost in the mail, like vases and frying pans, cat food and TV sets. All day long, shopping bags would appear, items of clothing, wedding rings.

And suddenly, one day, a man.

The man's name was John Sheppard, and he announced himself like this:

"The _fuck_?!"

Moments later Rodney McKay came crashing into the room, hanging on to the door handle as he stared at the man in front of him. He took in the heavy stubble on the man's face, the unruly hair and the dirty boots, the damp button-down shirt and the torn jeans, and said the first thing that came to mind.

"What kind of moron gets so lost they end up here?"

"'Here'?" Sheppard demanded, and stemmed his hands on his hips.

And McKay explained, about lost things and how they came to be in his house, about how he took care of them until they disappeared or stayed for good. About how having a living thing show up was unheard of; not even a hamster, and they got lost all the time. And the further he went in his explanation, the more Sheppard's face fell, hands leaving his hips to rest at his sides, clenching and unclenching as he listened.

"So what does that mean?" he finally asked, his voice a little scratchy, like his throat was tight.

McKay looked at him, and saw that Sheppard was tired and hungry, and surprised himself by taking pity.

"It means, I'm afraid, that you're stuck here until someone finds you. Come on, there's food in the kitchen and I have seventeen spare beds."

And thus John Sheppard came to live with Rodney McKay.

~~~

Listen:

~~~

It took a few days, but eventually John Sheppard accepted that there was no way back home for him from Rodney McKay's ancient house. He'd try to walk out the front door and then find himself in a room full of iPods; he'd climb over the garden fence only to end up next to the compost heap.

He had been lost, and lost he'd stay until someone found him.

McKay, unaccustomed as he was to human company, nevertheless got used fairly quickly to having Sheppard around. Of the two, Sheppard was the better cook, and he agreed to feed them in exchange for access to McKay's constantly growing and shrinking libraries, snorting in disgust when the third copy of _War and Peace_ winked out of existence when he had barely reached page seventeen. McKay told him to stick to the Koontzes and Scalzis. Nobody ever looked too hard for _them._

Sheppard countered that no one seemed to be looking too hard for _him,_ either, and McKay snapped his mouth shut at the bitterness in Sheppard's voice and left him alone, returning hours later with a brand new set of crappy movies and a gallon of chocolate and peanut butter ice-cream.

After all, Rodney McKay owned the house. He could leave whenever he wanted to.

But maybe John Sheppard wasn't quite as bitter as he seemed to be. He had been alone ever since a black mark got him discharged from the military, drifting without friends or family ties until he ended up stranded in a strange house, with a strange guy, who could be kind of an asshole but also surprisingly fun.

When a week had passed and Sheppard had still not been found by anyone, they settled into a routine. Neither of them ever mentioned it, but they often seemed to show up at the same place around the same time, like Sheppard reading his book in the same library that held McKay's latest journal of interest, or McKay deciding he needed some fresh air when Sheppard started tackling the garden. In the evenings, they slouched on couches or chairs or even the floor in front of the latest TV, criticising contrast ratio and surround sound performance as they watched the same crappy movies over and over again.

"I think Hasselhoff's acting is actually getting worse," Sheppard said one night, his shoulder pressed against McKay's although the couch was large enough to fit two more people at least.

"You do realise that this is the same scene as always," McKay replied, watching Hasselhoff's pet panther or leopard or whatever leap at one of the bad guys.

"No, seriously," Sheppard insisted, leaning forward, "of the two of them, the puma is definitely the better ac-"

Sheppard disappeared mid-word, leaving McKay to blink at the empty space beside him for a moment. He sat very still, then ran his hand over the couch, feeling the heat Sheppard's body had left behind, a warmth that was already fading. Then he got up and quietly switched off the TV, collected the dishes, carried them to the kitchen, and went to bed, where he lay staring at the ceiling for a long time.

John Sheppard had been found again.

~~~

Just a moment longer. Let me tell you this:

~~~

The ancient house became very quiet for a while. Things still kept appearing and disappearing at random intervals, but Rodney McKay no longer kept track of them, or cared if anything stayed behind. In the libraries, books kept stacking up until the towers toppled over. In the kitchen, frying pans and baking dishes got wedged between tin pots and spoons until the sink was barred from reach. In one of the seventeen spare bedrooms, a plasma TV fell and cracked when it popped up on a hill of gaming consoles.

Rodney McKay did not notice. He spent his days in the living room, watching Bela Lugosi prepare poison orchids to send to hapless young brides six times in a row while eating bad takeout food straight from the containers, trying to ignore the empty space beside him or the way the house was far too silent until something fell over.

And things might have gone on that way for a long time except suddenly, one day, a man appeared right there next to the couch, flushing when McKay wouldn't stop gaping at him.

"Turns out it's surprisingly hard to get lost on purpose," John Sheppard said, ducking his head and scratching the back of his neck a little sheepishly.

McKay closed his mouth, flailed helplessly, opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again, at a loss for words. He stood up and took a step closer to Sheppard, and another when Sheppard just looked at him, nervous and hopeful at the same time. Finally you could not have squeezed a hand between them as they stood, chest to chest and thigh to thigh, staring at each other like they were seeing something new.

And then Sheppard's tongue flicked out to wet his lips, and maybe McKay had been tilting his head already, or maybe he wanted to chase that tongue back into Sheppard's mouth. He pressed his own mouth against Sheppard's moist lips, both men's eyes fluttering shut as Sheppard made a tiny sound in the back of his throat, his hands coming up to clutch McKay's hips.

And then they were kissing, deep and eager like they had wanted to do it all along, and maybe they had. Maybe this was the reason John Sheppard had appeared in Rodney McKay's house in the first place. Maybe it was destiny.

In the end, though, does it really matter?

You might want to know if Sheppard and McKay had sex that day, or any other for that matter, and yes, they did. You might want to know if there were declarations of love, but, well, you know how men can be. You may ask if John Sheppard has ever been found again, if McKay is once more alone and unhappy in his ancient house, and all I can say is, not yet.

But you know what? I think that this time, nothing is going to happen. I think that this time, Rodney McKay found something for himself, and that this time, John Sheppard will stay right where he wants to be.

And really, what more can anyone ask for?


End file.
